The Cold Open
by Random-Battlecry
Summary: Long ago, they'd given him a coffee mug that said 'You don't have to work here to be insane, but it helps.' Stream of consciousness with Dave Nelson. Dave/Lisa


**A/N: I'm just going to go ahead and blame Dave Foley for this. I'm sure he won't mind.**

**The Cold Open**

Dave carries a little bit of Americana in his pocket, folded like a paper heart, scribbled on with colored pencils, testament to not a whole hell of a lot, but enough. Matthew drew him a tree, at least he thinks it's a tree. At least, he thinks Matthew thought it was a tree. Trees generally have fewer tentacles than that, though.

It's genuine Americana, though. There's nothing more American than Matthew Brock and his continued existence. What other country on earth would tolerate it?

Dave does not think wistfully of Canada, because he doesn't remember enough about it to be truly wistful. The most he can manage is a vaguely fond thought and a little bit of a sadface.

He tries not to do the sadface very often. He doesn't bother with the happyface much, either. Generally he goes for a not-particularly-anything-much-face, because it puts him ahead of the game with Mr. James and Beth, amuses Catherine, puts Joe on edge, annoys Lisa, and unnerves Matthew.

Bill just sits there and grins at him.

He remembers trying to achieve the state of happyface more two years ago, when he was fresh and new at WNYX, but that lasted approximately three minutes and then he found himself in a more or less permanent state of perpetually-worriedface, which he wasn't happy about, because according to Bill it made him look like he'd had his ice cream cone slapped out of his hand by one of the bigger kids.

He doesn't think he looks that young, really. It's been a big thing to everyone else in the office, his youthfulness, his small frame (smallish. Five eight is a perfectly respectable height for a guy these days, just because he can't play basketball very well doesn't mean he's a hobbit), his inability to order alcoholic drinks without getting carded. His interest in tap dancing. What isn't a big thing in the office, really? He's more or less been mocked on a deeply personal level ever since he set foot inside the station.

What does that mean, though. Not much. They mock him, they mock each other, they mock people in the news, they mock the guy who delivers lunch, they mock anyone they see out the window passing by down below. More than once he's had to break up the game Matthew insists is called Pennies From Heaven. Dave doesn't know who suggested it in the first place, but he has an idea. Probably the same person who was behind the game Matthew calls Loogies From Heaven.

Heaven-sent. Was there ever a time that he thought this job was a blessing? A sign, an omen, a raven on a tree branch. If there was, he can't remember it. He doesn't know what he thinks of it now, really. It's too complicated to analyze without, maybe, Lisa's help in higher mathematics. And he can't ask Lisa about it now. Without the kindness and tolerance of their relationship to fall back on, all he could expect is sarcasm.

This job. It defies explanation. What do you do, Dave Nelson? Well, sir, I wrangle octopi. There's about twenty of them, and they hate each other's guts, and also they're double-jointed, and it's my job to keep them disentangled for eight to twelve hours a day, while they read the news to an unsuspecting public. The technical term for my job is 'news director,' but we all know it's just a kindly euphemism.

Everyone knows. No one is even pretending that the station is anything but a mental health ward. Long ago, they'd given him a coffee mug that said 'You don't have to work here to be insane, but it helps.'

He never uses it. He's got it at home in his apartment, hidden in a cupboard behind the _Visit Beautiful Milwaukee! _mug that he keeps because sometimes blatant lies amuse him. But the Insanity mug isn't a lie. It's the absolute stone-cold truth, and he finds this not so much amusing as it is terrifying. Even filling it with coffee doesn't help, because when he drinks from the Insanity mug, caffeine tastes of metal and despair.

Oh, sweet caffeine. She's such a tease.

He'll get some now, maybe. He'll go fill up his mug, his usual, safe, sane WNYX mug, and he'll carry it around like a comfort blanket while he does his usual, safe, sane things, like checking on the status of Matthew's computer solitaire, stealing Bill's stapler, poking his head in the break room to make sure no one's planning on overthrowing the government again, double check on whatever explosive Joe has rigged this week, field questions on the budget from Mr. James, placate Catherine, and catch himself staring at Lisa without realizing it. Safe. Sane. Maybe a little delusional, but as long as he has coffee in his cup, he doesn't particularly care. He'll go fill up his mug, and the world will turn, and he won't fall asleep, and everything will be alright.

And later, later at an indeterminate time, later when he's put the station to bed and given it a good night kiss, he might sit back against the headboard of his bed (a lesser man might curl up in a fetal position; Dave hasn't been in a fetal position since he was an actual fetus) and pretend to drunk-dial Lisa, although he will not actually be drunk. He's not good at faking being drunk, and he knows it, but he's going to give it a try. He will be wearing a white t-shirt and plaid boxers and he will pull the covers over himself, and he will do a few face exercises (widening his mouth, rolling his eyes ceilingward, clicking his tongue, etc.) to loosen himself up, and as an afterthought he will mute the TV.

Hello _Lisa_, he'll say. Italics are a poor substitute for slurring, but Dave never got the hang of slurring.

Dave, it's after midnight, she'll say, in that patented patient-Lisa voice of hers, and the politeness will kick in and take over and the faux-drunkenness will be momentarily forgotten, and he will say, Oh, I'm sorry, did I wake you up? I woke you up, didn't I. I'm sorry.

No, no, she'll say, and he will be able to hear her shaking her head over the phone line. It's fine, Dave. Just. Is something wrong?

And he will be momentarily at a loss for words, because that question always stumps him. How to answer? Truthfully? Untruthfully? He's no good at lying, which is why he was practicing pretending to be drunk in the first place. This will remind him, and he will start again.

What could _possibly_ be _wrong_, he will say. I've got _you_ on the phone, don't I? Everything's _great_.

Dave, she will say, you are the worst at pretending to be drunk.

He will straighten his back against the headboard. I know, he'll say apologetically, that's why I'm practicing. I th— I thought, I, I just. I kinda. Ohh, I dunno.

They will lapse into a silence that is not entirely uncomfortable, and he will momentarily consider asking her what she's wearing. But that's taking it a step too far. He's never been drunk enough, even in reality, to ask anyone what they're wearing. He's not going to start now. He doesn't need to. Lisa _knows_ him, and for the first time in his life, being _known_ by someone doesn't make him completely uncomfortable. It makes him— happy, in a strange sort of way. It makes the turbulent seas inside him, constantly repressed, calm down of their own accord.

She will say, I'll be over in ten minutes.

She will come over in ten minutes.

She will be wearing white.

In the morning, tomorrow morning, she will wake before him and fix him coffee, because Lisa _knows_ him, and she knows that the ability to bring him coffee first thing in the morning is one of Dave's favorite things about her, about any woman, any person, really, he'd like it in a dog, too. She brings him coffee, and when he lifts the mug to drink deeply, deeply from the Elixir of Life, the mug will remind him that he doesn't have to work for WNYX to be crazy, but that it helps, and he will pause, hold still, the coffee cup perched on his lower lip.

What, Lisa will say, and her eyes will be warm and kind.

He will consider his options.

Nothing, he says, it's just. You make a great cup of coffee.

And Lisa will recognize this for the compliment it is— right up there with _You're the most beautiful woman I've ever seen, Lisa, Lisa, I'd vote for you if you ran for President, Lisa, you could single-handedly bring about world peace_— and she will smile.

And it will be the truth.

And the truth will taste sweet on his tongue, and he will never stop being surprised.


End file.
